


A Morning of Pale Spring

by Morgause1



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cat Shaped Maia, Domme/sub, F/F, Femslash, Fluff, Healing, Healing Sex, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Loss, Melancholy, Plenty of flowers and birds!, Porn With Plot, Sex, Smut, Soul Bond, Telepathy, Vala/maia, painful memories, Ósanwe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-21 01:25:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10674831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgause1/pseuds/Morgause1
Summary: After Thingol’s death, Melian returned to Valinor to muse upon her sorrows in the Gardens of Lórien, whence she came. Her Valier are kind, though, helping her to come to terms with her loss.





	A Morning of Pale Spring

**Author's Note:**

> My first femslash ever! Woo-hoo!
> 
> Partially based on the ideas and requests of Jess, AKA fantasychica37 on Tumblr, and serves as an early graduation gift. :-)

> “and she vanished out of Middle-earth, and passed to the land of the Valar beyond the western sea, to muse upon her sorrows in the gardens of Lórien, whence she came, and this tale speaks of her no more.”
> 
> J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, Quenta Silmarillion, Ch 22, Of the Ruin of Doriath.
> 
>  

*

No one on the ship dared to disturb the black-veiled figure that stood upon the prow day and night, as if trying to pierce the distances that separated it from the hallowed West. The tall, veiled one didn’t move from this spot for a moment during the long months of the journey, did not rest or take nourishment. That was understandable: even trapped in her fána, the Queen of Doriath required very little to live. There were other things on her mind now.

It was dawn when the ship finally landed. She shook off her entourage the second she got off the ship, hurrying swift and dark as a shadow to the place she dwelt in so long ago, before she got entangled in Middle-Earth and embodied life. Before fear and love enslaved her mind, she was a beautiful twilight that dwelt in the Gardens of Lórien. There, she knew, they waited for her.

She could sense them from afar, even before her flesh eyes saw them: two beings of much higher power than her own, one soft and balmy and the other clear and bright as a spring morning. They called to her with voices that stirred her to the core and in unison they spread their arms to catch the running Maia in an all-engulfing embrace.

“He’s dead,” she told them. “My husband. I didn’t know it would hurt so much.”

“I know…” the Valier both whispered, their voices comforting and full of love. Locked in their embrace, Melian could finally cry. And she did, while the shadows of the trees shifted overhead. At last, she could cry no more.

“You are weary and the morning grows late.” Melian lifted her face to Estë, and the Valie caressed the tears from her cheeks. “Come, Melyanna. I’ll take care of you.”

While the Gardens themselves were well-lit, Estë’s island in the Lake Lorellin was filled with a gentle twilight. In the middle of the island willows grew. Vines climbed through their soft, sighing branches, full of purple and white flowers which gave off a bittersweet scent. The Valie’s bower was set in the heart of the grove. Several of the Lady’s Maiar were already there, sprawling drowsily amid the soft fabrics and pillows. They roused when they saw Melian, greeting her with voices like the murmurs of dreamers and nighttime breeze. Estë reclined in the middle of the bower and held out her hand to Melian, and when the Maia lay beside her, she pulled her close to rest her head on her shoulder. The other Maiar huddled closer, as close as they could to their mistress, reaching out to touch her. Lulled by the Valie’s fingers playing with her hair and by the song of the nightingales that started flocking to her the moment she landed, Melian soon fell fast asleep.

The sleep of the Ainur is not the same as that of the Incarnate. It is an altered state of the eala, a slowing of the rush of thought to allow for renewal and recovery, while the senses remain active. Waves of healing radiated from Estë, swayed the poppies growing in the violet shadows and rustled in the leaves of the trees, spreading out through the Gardens. Held in the very heart of the whirlwind, Melian felt what she hadn’t ever since going away, what she still longed for in the small hours of the night in that far land beneath the trees: her Lady’s soul reaching into those of her Maiar, deepening her Claim on them. The Maiar sighed in their sleep and moved closer, opening up their minds for their mistress to take. Melian murmured and wrapped her arms tighter around Estë, burying her face in her breasts. Her thin, silken dress rode up her hips, exposing tender flesh. Their naked legs scissored in the gloom, mimicking their ealar. A current of grayness flowed into Melian, pale and soothing. It touched her wounds, precise as a surgeon’s scalpel, inspecting her pain and then numbing it. She reveled in the grayness, sliding it between her fingers and through her hair, letting it enter her through her mouth, her eyes, every last pore of her perfect skin. The grayness seemed to be pleased with her and rippled, taking on a silvery hue, like the ancient light of Telperion, like…   

She remembered Elu’s eyes above her and his hair cascading like liquid silver around her face, the first time he worshipped her in the shadows of Nan Elmoth. He was young then, so young, his fëa as clear as the still waters of Cuiviénen and his eyes brighter than the stars. His hands caused her to tremble in a way she’d never known before, and when he sunk into her, vows of love and wedlock on his lips, she knew she could never stop wanting him, wanting this feeling and connection inside of her. But he was gone now, and would not come back until long ages have passed. So much time… it was almost too long even for the ancient and deathless Maia to comprehend. She sobbed once in grief and pressed herself harder to the Valie’s thigh, barely registering her growing wetness. Estë opened her eyes, aware of her Maia’s discomfort.

“Melyanna?”

Melian moved again, the touch sending ripples of relief through her in a manner that was familiar just as it was strange. It made her feel better, the painful memories eased into something more bearable. The Ainur never touched each other this way: the ways of the flesh were not something that came naturally for them. But she needed it now, needed so much to feel Elu again, even if it were just a fantasy born in the Garden of Dreams. Senses still overflowing with the force of the Lady’s Claiming, her pride forgotten, she begged for it.

“Mistress…”

Estë moved her fingers to her Maia’s temple and looked deep into her soul, perceiving her love and pain. Images flickered at her: the Maia and her Elf husband in the forest, the texture and smell of their love, of the act that bound them together and brought forth a new life. It seemed to Melian that Estë understood, but still a shadow of doubt flowed in the silver river.

“How?”

“Let me show you, Mistress. Please.”

“You may, Lómelinde.”

Melian pressed her lips to those of the Valie, running her fingers through her silvery hair. It was almost like his, back then, but shinier, less like actual hair and more like the glint of the first stars to rise in twilit sky, compressed and combed into fine silk. The present and the past mixing in her sleeping mind, she succumbed to her Lady’s kiss with relish. She moved her hips again, rubbing herself against the Valie, and stifled a moan. Had her mind been more alert, she would have been amazed to feel her Lady becoming wet, too, soft and hot on her body, and begin to move in unison with the thrusting of her hips. When the gentle lips left her mouth suddenly she whimpered, but then she was laid on her back by strong hands and her dress was removed altogether. The Lady’s lips moved to her neck and breasts, humming with a surprised pleasure. A warm tongue teased her nipples, perking them and sending darts of need to her sex, soon followed down by a hand. She gasped when the hand found her wetness and the thumb started brushing slowly against her clitoris. The shining hair was in her face now, just like then, but its scent was different, translucent and airy. Melian shivered and ran her hands down the Valie’s back, moving to copy her motions. She couldn’t talk, but her soul, still entangled in that of her mistress, sang of her desire. The Valie straightened then, one magnificent wave of pale light, and spread her Maia’s legs. Melian’s sigh of awe soon became a cry as Estë moved between and over them and pressed their sexes together.

The pleasure was light at first, a vibration fluttering from her sex to her belly. She moaned louder and louder as the tickle deepened, widened, flowed all the way down to her weakened knees. Her hands rose, trembling, to touch her mistress’ pale breasts and arms, to wrap around her slender waist and rest quivering on her behind. 

“Goddess,” she felt. The Valie looked down on her, lips parted and eyes hooded with dark pleasure, and smiled. She brought her hand to the Maia’s lips, and she kissed and sucked her fingers, feeling the Valie’s pulse in them. A wet heat was building up in her belly, hanging precariously on the edge, waiting to crush down upon her.

“I need you,” Melian moaned around the Valie’s fingers. “I adore you, I need to stay with you, please…” she was flushed now, panting, heart racing and her body covered by a thin sheen of sweat. She could feel the center of her pleasure stiffen against her Lady’s wetness. She was so close now.

“You are mine, my Lómelinde, the most beautiful of my servants.” Estë whispered in her mind, soft and balmy. “I welcome you back and I will hold you close. Take this pleasure; heal the hurts of your body and your soul. Live!”

With a desperate cry, Melian sat up and crushed her lips to the Valie’s. She screamed into her mouth when wave after wave of sharp, liquid pleasure wrecked through her body. Her hands, which clung white-knuckled to Estë’s body, lost their grip and she would have fallen, but she was caught and held tight. Estë moaned into her hair, a heady sound that the still-shocked Melian had never heard before, and then her grip tightened almost painfully. She could feel her Lady’s orgasm in her mind, and it caused her mouth to slam open in silence and her eyes to roll back in her head. This was the most intense feeling she ever had, and her eala was reeling with ecstasy.

They sat this way together for a long time, embracing and letting their breath mingle. After a while, Melian became aware of her siblings surrounding them. They seemed content, absorbing the energy released by their mistress. Some, who were embodied enough, held hands. One, in the raiment of a large cat with long, gray fur, snuggled against Melian’s leg and rubbed his head against it affectionately. She was home.

She turned her eyes back to Estë, searching her relaxed face. “Did I please you, my Lady?”

“Very much so, fear not. This was unexpected, but lovely.” Estë’s voice was warm, a honeyed balsam that sunk into the marrow of her bones. “Now rest, for you need to regain your strength.”

 

She slept until just before dawn and awoke alone, as the Valie and her Maiar worked mainly at night, under the light of the stars. She got up to her feet and tested her soul. She was much stronger now. Soon she might be able to shake off her fána, if her Ladies Will that. She wondered if she wanted it, to walk unclad for a while, to rest from all the sensations that plagued her for centuries. But… this was the form she took when she first met her husband, the one his flesh eyes saw and could understand. The one he touched, the one he loved, the one that gave birth to their child and nursed her. And now when they were both taken away from her, could she really let go of this body and the memories it kept locked in muscle and bone? For good or for bad, she was used to it now.

Dressing up, she looked at the black veils scattered among the linen, and after a moment of hesitation left them where they were. There was no need for shrouds in the non-invasive light of Valinor. Her grieving heart would be protected enough even without them.

Outside the bower grove the first rays of the Sun began to shine, painting the sky in yellow and blue. Melian jumped into the cool lake and began to swim across, her violet dress trailing after her in the water. It felt good, stretching out her limbs after so long on the ship. It felt good to be back, although it was not the same alone. But she was not alone, she reminded herself. Not on this blessed shore. Here she had her Ladies to serve and draw on, as she did for ages uncountable before going to Middle-Earth and meeting Elu, and they were good to her. And Lady Estë…

Lady Estë did her a kindness she would never forget.

She climbed to the shore and sat on a large rock to dry, thinking of Estë and absentmindedly whistling a few notes to the birds that came to perch on her shoulders and outstretched arms. The air was fresh and silent and dew covered the opening flowers. She could feel Lord Irmo in the distance, moving slowly through his Gardens, and her eala sent him a courtesy. She sat for a long while, just listening to the sounds of water and birdsong, but then her heart pulled her forward: it was time to move on.

 

She followed the trail of golden flowers until she found her on the edge of the forest. She was alone – her maidens were elsewhere, their cheer and dancing far away. Vána smiled when she saw her, her smile like the first ray of warm sunshine after a long and dead winter. Melian bowed deeply. The Valie just laughed and waved for her to draw near.

Up close, Vána was the most beautiful being Melian had ever seen (except for her daughter, her heart whispered, but she shut it out): her long hair was a rich gold, her skin the color of snowdrop flowers. Her mantle of living flowers rustled in the soft breeze as she leaned to kiss the top of Melian’s head.

She did not speak, but gestured to the Maia to walk with her. Her bare, bejeweled feet made no sound in the grass. They walked in silence for a while, Melian basking in the Valie’s golden light.

“I named my daughter in your honor, my Lady, the Daughter of Flowers.” She said quietly. Vána stopped and looked at her, waiting for her to go on. “She… she married a Man. And when he dies… she would go with him to wherever Eru wills. I would never see her again.”  

When Vána spoke, her voice was like a fountain springing high in the clear air of the morning, filled with a secret joy. “Nothing happens without reason, my pet. Our Lord’s Will and plan are not always clear, not even to Manwë His favorite. But He is benevolent, and you may trust that there is a higher Doom, in this affair as in any other, and in time it might be revealed to us.”

Melian withdrew, wrapping her arms about herself. Vána embraced her from behind, gently coaxing her arms apart. “You are frozen hard, my Maia. The long years in exile, under the influence of the Enemy, have taken their toll on you. But now you no longer need to be afraid, need not hold strong alone against a Power too great for you. You are here, where you should be, where I can warm you back to life.”

Melian leaned back into her embrace. “It hurts, Mistress. My beloved, only child. I… left her there. There was nothing I could do to… ”

“Tell me,” the Lady interrupted. “Is she happy?”

Melian considered it. She wouldn’t look into her daughter’s eyes when she came back a Mortal to Doriath, but her soul looked. She saw the love in Lúthien’s eyes when she thought and spoke of Beren, saw the hope for a future that was so radically different than anything that ever came before light up in her heart.

“Yes,” she finally said. “She is happy.”

“The Daughter of Flowers would die, yes, like all flowers do in the winter of Middle-Earth. But your seeds are buried deep, awaiting the Sun. They have children, and their children after them, too. Your line does not end here.”

“They would all flicker briefly and die,” she said bitterly. “They would be Mortal.”

“Not all of them,” the Valie smiled, her leaf-green eyes beaming. “And when the time comes, some of them might even arrive in here. Look, my Melyanna. I’ll show you.”

She sat cross-legged with her back against a tree. Melian curled down beside her and laid her head in the Valie’s lap. Vána produced a golden flute from among the folds of her scented mantle and began to play. The music was mellow, warm, mingled with the chirping of the birds surrounding them. Several forest animals drew closer to listen, fearless of the kind spirits. Melian’s mind opened for her mistress’s influence and was filled with visions. Carried upon the golden waves of the music, she saw distant images of Elves, black-haired like her and sharing some of her child’s fair features. Children ran across the green grass of Valinor, hurrying towards her with open arms. Their laughter was just like Lúthien’s when she was a toddler, bell-like and wonderful. Melian sighed. Hope, so bright and unexpected, began its secret blossom in her mind, like a crocus peeking from underneath the thick, smothering whiteness of snow.

Perhaps every winter **does** have a spring.


End file.
